User blog:Psychomantis108/Legends of the Wastes: Hamilton's Confession
This is a different kind of thing, than I usually do. It's Hamilton's account of life in the Vault and what made him decide to leave as if written by him as a memoir entry and explores some of his mindset before he became who he is today. ---- Tennessee Williams once said: "We all live in a house on fire, no fire department to call; no way out, just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped, locked in it." Growing up in a vault, I didn't really get that. Reading those old plays on the Vault terminals. It was a different time, different world. Though it became so relatable to me. Now I understand perfectly. Now I see how I was slowly succumbing to the debilitating isolation. The dim lights fogging my mind, until I would have been so lost and confused, that the brightest future I could have hoped for was to drink, until I'm paralytic. Life was hard, after leaving but I never regretted it. Not for a second. - There was a lot of bullshit leading to it. Mom was a punching bag, for a shit hole stepfather, who nobody wanted around. Nobody but her. I always fucking hated her for that. Her weakness, her fear of being alone. I would have been right there, beside her and she would have still felt alone. I was never good enough. Nothing that I said or did mattered, unless it came back onto her. I remember her referring me to the Vault Doctor. James Callaghan. After I had a long spell of depression. I didn't mind James. He listened. I needed that. I needed someone other than a fucking terminal to talk to. He had to give me a sheet or two to fill in. Bullshit questionnaires that threw self-harm, thoughts of self-harm, suicidal thoughts and suicide attempts into the same box. I feel bad for any poor fucker, who had to tick it. I talked to James for a month or two. Did a few inkblot tests. I remember having to point out the two bears, who were high fiving and how much that amused him. After he got what he needed, he got my mom involved. Her shithead husband wanted to join but they wouldn't let him. James was smart enough to make up some bullshit rule about blood relatives only. I slouched, next to mommy dearest, dying to see how she could make this all about her and to see if she could betray my expectations. Though it was rare that she did... "Ms Hamilton." James began, taking a sharp intake, through his teeth as the dark haired, haggard biddy just stared intently at him. "I have been working closely with your son for three months. As you know, I noticed that your son has expressed symptoms of Braun phenomenon. Also known as ‘Vault related depression.’ Though my original suspicions were seemingly correct, the extent of it has surprised even myself." I felt the judgemental eyes of the punching bag, expecting her to be feeling mighty embarrassed. Her fuck up son had a screw loose, he was destined to become a garbage burner. Honestly? I wouldn't have minded it. Throwing trash like her, into a great fire for a living sounded good to me. Though in hindsight, I would have loved to have been a librarian of some sort. Sounds odd, seeing me now but the isolation and the access to all of the literature would have suited me to the ground. "Your son's verbal and written thoughts have suggested that he suffers from Cotard syndrome." I had no idea what the fuck that was but it sounded like something that could be hidden under a pile of makeup and a new haircut, so I didn't expect mom to give a shit. "So... Thomas has special needs?" She asked, never failing to disappoint. "What? No. Quite the opposite." James insisted, typical of mother to not let him finish before asking a retarded question of her own. “The issue is psychological… It’s a condition, not a disorder. Albeit a rare one. It’s so rare, in fact, that it wasn’t in most of the literature was added as an afterthought of ‘unlikely but potential’ problems, that Vault Dwellers may have. In its most common manifestation, patients experience delusions of being dead or missing bodyparts, Thomas has expressed several thoughts akin to these. He describes the Vault as a ‘Tartarus,’ an unpleasant afterlife.” It was then that I met the chilling gaze, that I was expecting. She probably thought I said it for attention or to fuck with someone but the sad reality was that I wasn’t. This was the reality that I faced… Can you blame me? When life is as small as a couple of blocks by a couple of blocks and your step father is an unfeeling, wrathful monster, that beats your mother and threatens to beat you as he drinks most of the food ration coupons… what else do you make of it? All I knew was grey walls, filtered air, filtered souls and lives. Honestly, if the bible was written in a time, in which it was possible to recycle people’s farts into the air that you breathe, they would have added it to the descriptions of purgatory. Maybe even hell. They tell you that outside is hell and the older I got, the more I wanted that. To feel the pain of flames and the grit of the dust storms, enough to forget the humidity and clamminess of the vault. To put it bluntly, hell is a stimulation that I craved. Not out of a desire to be punished but a need to feel. As I heard them talk about medication and sessions and solutions, I found myself zoning out. I was unable to process the conversation as it got further and further away from what I wanted to be reality. My thoughts were where they always were, back then. The fiery-red skies of the wasteland, roaring thunder above my head and the prickling of radiation on my flesh. It was no longer an idle fantasy, I had to break free of this Alcatraz of deprivation and finally exist. That’s what he was talking about, the house on fire. Existence and oblivion are but one and the same. You cannot exist, without the threat of oblivion. Living in a house, that is not on fire is not living at all but a different kind of death, made pleasant by temperature control and non-threatening words. It inspired weakness, a craven content attitude that few, if any could escape from, unless they were truly willing. I found myself determined, for the first time in my life. I would break out of this gunmetal grey nightmare and find refuge in hell or else I will die trying and take an express ticket. I would not be like her. I would not die blind, deaf and retarded under a dim porcelain light. I would not live under the blistering fist of the sigma male, who lives in crippling fear of becoming an omega, under the pack alpha’s boot. The day that I left, I put all delusions behind me of being in anything but a living world. After tasting rotten food, breathing in sulphur and feeling the sting of a blade slicing through my flesh, life finally became real. After leaving that life behind me, I felt an uplifting sensation, that could not be replicated. That was the day that I took this path. A path that I’ve been discouraged from, many times by the likes of Morgan Jones, James Callaghan and his son, Denis… What they don’t know, is that we all walk the same path. The only difference is that I know where it ends… Category:Blog posts Category:Legends of the Wastes Category:Stories